Every Day
by The Plaid Corset
Summary: Pandora Nightly. Interesting name. Uninteresting job. I am a cook in the bowels of the Bureau of Paranormal Research and Defense. This is my every day life. Oh yes, fear my glory.


Inspiration!

Yeah, the over the to annoying tone I heard in my own head while typing that was a bit much, I'll admit.

But seriously, even though the second movie really didn't flow with the first, I enjoyed it for what it was and desperately want the special edition three disk set for the first moveh.

Anyways, here's a little something to keep me sane before Fall Semester starts up. Woot ph33r teh freshman, TJC. PH33R MEH.

Please review and let me know what you think.** No pairings as of yet, if any.**

ENJOY!

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Ah, the Bureau of Paranormal Research and Defense. Lovely place, if you can look past the ugly off-vomit color cylinders exterior, too-sterile, gleaming steel interior, and none-too-happy coworkers that you are forced to exchange pleasantries with on a daily basis. Though you have to admit, it is exciting. Blowing up beasties, mutilating monsters, pulverizing poltergeists… Okay, even_ I_ know when to stop with this corny crap.

But seriously, it is exciting, at least for those who actually go out and DO something.

But, you see, am but a lowly cook.

Actually that's laughable, because I am chef to the famous (and slightly infamous) demi-demon, protector of the innocent, and cat fanatic: Hellboy. Yup, you comic book fans can eat your heart out. Though, I only started about a month ago, my Dad got me the job. See he was the big red guy's personal chef before me, and you know, it's who ya know, ya know?

Not that I've even seen the guy I'm cooking for, except for in, like, comic books.

Anyways, Daddy's retired, and I'm taking over. Though the kitchen cooks don't seem to like me very much. 'Oh we graduated top of our respected classes at some top of the line culinary school from far off lands! We were forced to create masterpieces out of nothing but old boots, dried fish and lint!'

Feh.

They're a bunch of stuck up snobs that wouldn't know what to do with a live chicken if given one. I may not know how to make some random fancy French cuisine from the top of my head, but man, I make a wicked stew.

And better yet, nothing I have made so far has ever been sent back to me. That's even happened to Daddy before, so I would say I'm doing okay.

Still the only one who really talks to me is Hellboy's 'keeper'. He's a nice guy, sweet, a little naïve, and a bit more corny, but I can respect that. It's refreshing, actually. Agent John Myers.

He's cute, but not my type.

"Hey, Panny."

Speak of the Devil… I looked over at him as he entered the cafeteria and took off my headphones. "Hey Secret Agent Man," I replied, only because that's what was playing on my iPod. "You are early."

"Yeah, I know," he shrugged hopping up on the bar stool on his side of the Short-Order window. "Red's driving me up the wall."

"Why?" I asked conversationally, turning down the heat and taking one of my cauldrons off the stove.

"Liz went off again," John sighed. I glance up with a disapproving sound.

"Honestly, what does 'Away' have that she doesn't have here?" I asked. "I mean BossManwould give that girl anything she wanted and definitely would not hurt her…" I paused with a sigh. I brandished my spoon at him, as I had a habit of speaking with my hands. "And besides, they've been friends for how long? That's gotta count for something!"

He looked as if he were about to answer when he actually looked at the contents of the spoon I was holding. "What's that?"

I looked down at it and answered, "Chili."

"No, it's not."

"Yes, it is." He opened his mouth to argue and I popped the spoon I'd been blowing on to cool it into his mouth. His eyes widened in surprise but he found the taste and chewed. "So, it's not that canned shit that his almighty redness has had for the past thirty years."

"Hey, that's good." John said, after swallowing and wiping the bit of juice off his chin.

"Healthier too," I comment and start moving it into the other heated bowls. "Our young hero is having a delightful home-made chili, gigantic free-form beer biscuits (made with his favorite beer), fried green tomatoes and yellow squash, steamed and lightly seasoned purple hull peas. And of course a mountain of hand-fried, well, fries."

"Sounds good," commented John, and I produced a plate for him that I was keeping warm in the oven. His face lit up and I chuckled. "Gee, thanks Pan!"

"No problem Sweetheart, just hurry while I get everything set up for feedin' time." He gave me the thumbs up as his mouth was full of fried squash. I shook my head and turned back to the cart to finish loading up.

"You know, I don't think I've ever eaten half the stuff that's on my plate…" he stated, lifting spoonful of chili to his mouth, I glanced over at him.

"Oh? Any of it good?"

He gave and exaggerated nod and I chuckled at him. "Int'resting."

"I'll take that as a complement. None of the others think my cooking'll ever amount to anything. Not that I really want it to exactly, it's just I enjoy the illusion that I make good food, you know?" I turned to him, finished with the cart and he was wiping his mouth with a napkin, his plate empty and juices already mopped up. Typical government training at its finest. But he's got this odd look on his face. "What?"

"Who said that, Pan?" he asked curiously. And I wisely shrug in return; John wasn't one to pry and I often used that to my advantage when our conversations get a bit personal. He let it drop, like I knew he would. "Alright, any crumbs, stains or other tell-tale signs?" He asked standing up. I studied his jacket, tie and shirt quickly and shook my head in the negative. "Good."

He disappeared from my line of sight and then came into the actual kitchens through the swinging doors to get the carts. He leaves promising to return for the other cart. Technically he had to, but whatever. He's such a cornball.

I bent to check the heat gauge on the cart. My Dad really was inventive during his stay here. He made these carts that went to Hellboy sort of like traveling ovens. They keep the food stored on them at a constant high temperature, that keeps them out of the 'Danger Zone'. Anyone who went through the hell known as Food Handling Certification can tell you what said 'Danger Zone' is. Not that it would really affect the demi-demon if the food was left out to cool, but keeping habits is always a good idea. It keeps you sane.

There was a loud crash somewhere above me.

And believe me, you need it when you work in a place like this.

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I would very much enjoy reading some reviews. Inspiration and suggestion would be AMAZING.

Love ya'll

THE PLAID CORSET


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